card for the recommended dosages for premature infants by weight. “Add a bolus of dextrose.” He called out his orders and Scarlet filled the syringes and administered their contents via the newly inserted IV line.
“Come on, Joey,” she said, rubbing her thighs in an attempt to perk her up.
The door slammed open and in rolled an incubator being pushed by Cindy. “You okay down here?” she asked.
“Better than expected,” Scarlet replied, considering who she’d had to work with. Luckily, Dr. Jackson’s reputation as an excellent physician came well-deserved.
“Good.” Cindy turned to leave. “The NICU is nuts. I talked to Admissions. Baby Doe,” a placeholder name since Holly hadn’t shared her last name, “will be going into room forty-two.”
“Call Admissions and tell them it’s Joey Doe. Holly told me she wanted her baby to be named Joey.” And following through on that was the least she could do.
“Roger that.” She saluted then walked over to take a look at their soon-to-be new patient. “Too bad about her mom.”
“She’s...?” Scarlet couldn’t continue.
Cindy looked between her and Dr. Jackson and slowly nodded. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
Scarlet turned away, held herself tightly, fearing for the first time in years she might cry. For Holly who’d died too young. For Joey now alone in the world. For her own infant and not knowing if she’d suffered, if anyone had cuddled her close before she’d died, or if she’d been ruthlessly given away to strangers while Scarlet lay in a drug-induced slumber.
“You okay?” Dr. Jackson asked quietly.
Of course she was. Scarlet wasn’t new to nursing. Holly wasn’t the first of her patients to die. But there was something about her...”What do you think happened?”
He shrugged and shook his head. “Some congenital heart defect that couldn’t withstand labor and delivery. A pulmonary embolism. Any number of pre-existing conditions that could have worsened or arisen during her pregnancy that we didn’t know about. Dr. Gibbons is an excellent doctor. I have total confidence he did all he could do.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
As if to share her agreement, little Joey Doe let out a little cry and they both looked down at their tiny patient. “Her color is improving,” Scarlet noted. “And she’s more alert.”
With skilled, gentle hands, Dr. Jackson examined the increasingly active baby. “Heart rate down to one hundred and twenty. I’d give her a second Apgar score of seven.”
Not a perfect ten, but improved. Scarlet documented it in her notes.
“She’s stable enough for transport up to the NICU,” Dr. Jackson said. Then he helped her get Joey situated in the incubator.
“After I get her settled in I’ll access her ER file and enter my documentation.”
“If you run into any trouble, let me know.” He held out his hand and she shook it. “Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime.” She went to remove her hand from his grip but he held it there.
“We need to talk about Jessie,” Dr. Jackson said. So serious. Did the man ever smile? According to Jessie, no he did not.
Scarlet took a moment to admire his tall, athletic build and short brown hair mixed with a hint of grey at his temples. He had a look of confidence and prestige she would have found very attractive on someone else. “No,” Scarlet said, looking to where he held her hand. “You need to talk to your daughter.” She looked up at him. “And here’s a helpful hint to improving communication between the two of you.” She yanked her hand back. “Stop comparing her to the perfect little boy you used to be. Just because you loved swimming and boating and all things water when you were a child, doesn’t mean she does.”
* * *
Later that night Lewis stood in his designer kitchen, eyeing the modern stainless steel handle on the high-end black cabinet that contained the bottles of wine he’d kept at the ready in case any of his dates wanted a glass, and considered uncorking one. Although he wasn’t in the habit of drinking alone, it’d been the kind of day followed by the kind of night that warranted a little alcohol consumption to facilitate a return to his pre-Jessie level of calm.
But Lewis Jackson had never turned to alcohol to drown his problems before, and he refused to start now. He was a problem solver, a thinker and a fixer. And to do those things he required a clear head.
Since his daughter had taken up permanent residence in the loft guestroom, he tended to avoid the living area below after she went to sleep. So he walked down the hall to his bedroom, the smooth hardwood floors cool beneath his bare feet, the central air maintaining the perfect air temperature, his two bedroom luxury condo decorated to his exact specifications for style, comfort and function. And yet his home no longer brought him the welcoming serenity it once had.
Jessie hadn’t said more than a handful of words—all of them monosyllabic—to him since they’d left the hospital, even after he’d insisted they eat their takeout grilled chicken Caesar salads together in the kitchen for a change. What an uncomfortable meal that’d been. Jessie, staring down at her plate, moving the chicken around with her fork. Lewis, trying to engage her in conversation, to offer reassurance about her trip to Lake George, to find out more about her relationship with Scarlet Miller, and, for the hundredth time, to gain some insight into the functioning of the pre-pubescent female mind. A booby-trapped labyrinth of erratic and illogical thought processes he could not seem to navigate through, despite successful completion of several child psychology classes and licensure as a pediatrician.
After nine arduous months of trying, and failing his daughter at every crisis, Lewis gave in to the cold, hard fact: He could not do it alone.
And yet again, an image of Scarlet Miller popped into his head. A pretty yet unfriendly woman and a skilled professional, who, he’d found out on further inquiry, received high praise and much respect from her peers and upper management. But at the moment, all that mattered to him was her relationship with his daughter.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the slip of paper he’d stashed there earlier, and glanced at his watch. A few minutes after eleven o’clock.
It was too late to call, but his need to talk to her, to get answers and beg for her assistance overrode common phone etiquette. After hours and hours spent considering his options, Lewis had come to the conclusion Scarlet Miller was his key to deciphering Jessie’s passive-aggressive behavior and learning her secrets, to understanding her and starting a productive dialogue between them, so he could help her, so he could, please God, find something about her to love.
Lewis picked up his phone and dialed.
After a few rings a groggy female voice answered, “Hello?”
Great, he’d woke her up. And the last thing he wanted to do was anger his best hope for achieving a healthy, positive relationship with his daughter. He cleared his throat. “Hi. It’s Lewis.”
“I’m sorry. You have the wrong number.”
“Wait. Is this Scarlet Miller?” he rushed to ask before she disconnected
